


Lonesome Comfort

by helvel



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helvel/pseuds/helvel
Summary: Their hunting trips out of Colter are the first time Arthur’s really spent any time with Charles, and he’s found that he likes Charles, quiet and thoughtful with a warmth that even the blustering winds through the mountains can’t dampen. Would be nice to spend more time with him...If Charles doesn’t think he’s a complete jackass now.





	Lonesome Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream about Arthur in the countryside, his conflicting need for time alone and his longing for human kindness, and the profound loneliness that comes out of that. My waking brain translated that into probably-asexual Arthur not understanding the type of affection he really craves. 
> 
> tldr: This fic is about jerking off and Arthur/Charles is background pairing.

“Is something wrong?” Charles asks, when it becomes apparent that the surly silence on their way back to camp isn’t just Arthur being Arthur.

“Not a thing,” Arthur grumbles, “Alls just peachy.”

It’s a rude response that Charles doesn’t deserve, but the sorry state of their lives has Arthur in a bad mood. He can feel Charles watching him - deciding if he ought to poke the bear or not. 

“You did good with that rabbit,” Charles offers.

The white rabbit tied to Arthur’s saddle is pierced through the neck with an arrow, the first time he’s ever managed to hit a rabbit with a bow, all thanks to Charles’ advice on their recent hunting trips. Arthur should be proud. Except, the rabbit is the only thing hanging from his saddle. The ruins of Colter loom ahead, filled with cold, hungry people, and one skinny rabbit isn’t going to go very far.

“Shouldn’tve missed those other two,” Arthur says. Twice he’d shot wide, startling the rabbits into the bush instead of taking them down.

Charles shrugs. “Happens, sometimes.”

“You wouldn’tve missed them.”

“Don’t matter. Can’t hit anything, now.” Charles shows his injured hand, burnt and blistered from the Blackwater job. Holding Taima’s reins is about the most he can do until it heals. It must be Hell for someone like Charles, who’s always busy doing something or other. He can’t hunt, can’t use a bow. He can’t even do much to entertain himself.

“Must be hard getting yourself off like that,” Arthur says.

A long moment passes before Arthur realizes what he said.

“I-I-“ Arthur stammers, “I didn’t mean it like that.” Goddamn, did he really just ask if Charles has any trouble stroking himself off?

Charles, in his endless patience, looks amused. “Well, I can tell you that try to take a piss is Hell, but the cold is half of that.”

If there’s a God above, He’d better have a sainthood waiting for Charles. Charles deserves it for putting up with Arthur like he ain’t the craziest son of a bitch around.

Arthur keeps his mouth clamped firmly shut as they hitch the horses. He can’t even bring himself to thank Charles for asking him out hunting today. Charles offers to take the rabbit over to Pearson, and Arthur sulks off to go bang his head against a wall.

* * *

In better times, they all joke about it around the fire – fucking, fooling around, getting off, all that ring-dang-do. Problem is, this isn’t better times. They’re freezing their asses off in the Grizzlies, Jenny and Davey are in the ground, Sean and Mac are God knows where, and Arthur…

Arthur asked Charles if his injury from Blackwater makes it difficult to jerk off.

He barely knows Charles. Their hunting trips out of Colter are the first time Arthur’s really spent any time with him, and he’s found that he likes Charles, quiet and thoughtful with a warmth that even the blustering winds through the mountains can’t dampen. Would be nice to spend more time with him. If Charles doesn’t think he’s a complete jackass now.

It’s a weird thing to say to someone, he knows it’s weird, and it’s stupid to think that anyone other than Arthur would have that as the first thing on their mind. He’s learned that he’s the only one like this. The only one who’s nearly forty and still has his hand on his cock as much as a teenager does.

He just… likes it. Holding his cock in the protective cradle of his hand, enjoying the comfort of the private intimacy. It ain’t about fucking. Fucking’s fine, when that empty, desperate void inside himself grows too loud and he just needs to find some way to shut it up for a while, even if it leaves him feeling awful after. Stroking himself off is different. Just him, alone, like he could always count on for it to be. It takes his mind off things.

Right now, he’s got a lot on his mind.

It’s too damned cold to consider getting his dick out, even if they weren’t packed like sardines in what’s left of Colter. He lays atop the moldy mattress, staring up at the night sky through the holes in the roof. Feels like Molly is right beside him, for all the crumbled wall does to separate their rooms, and Dutch’s pacing footsteps are about as soothing as a gatling gun.

Arthur shivers. He lays a sympathetic hand over his crotch. His dick misunderstands, and twitches against his palm, thinking it’s about time to start their nightly routine.

_ Goddamn. _Arthur needs to do something, anything, before he loses his mind in here.

Dutch is still pacing in the front room, illuminated by the low-burning fire. He stops when he sees Arthur. The big fur coat shrinks him somehow, makes him look small beneath it, crumpled and thin like Arthur has rarely seen him before.

“Just goin’ out for a bit,” Arthur says, quiet, because some part of him feels the need to assure Dutch he’s coming back.

Dutch watches him for a moment, then nods. “Take care of yourself out there,” he says.

_ Wish I could, _ Arthur wants to say, but he just shuts his mouth and goes.

It’s bright outside, despite being past midnight, moonlight bouncing off the snow and illuminating the ruined buildings. Lenny’s out by the watch fire. Arthur could take over the watch shift – he needs something to do – but Lenny declines the offer. Says he’s good for a couple more hours at least. Says Arthur should go check in with Charles in the stables instead.

Sure. While he’s at it, Arthur might as well ask Charles how often he gets off and what kind of grip he likes to use for it too.

Still, he makes his way to the stables. Charles glances up when he comes in, and gives him a little smile. Arthur forgets what he was about to say.

“Uh, evening,” he manages.

“You’re up late,” Charles says.

Arthur shrugs. They all keep odd hours, between jobs and watch shifts, but he doesn’t have any excuse like that tonight. “Can’t sleep,” he says honestly.

Charles nods, like he knows, and Arthur supposes he does. “Come sit a while, then.”

Arthur eases himself down onto the crates beside Charles. They’re quiet for a moment. Ain’t much to do on the watch shift this deep in the mountains. The horses huddle together in the pens, and the tied up O’Driscoll seems to have fallen asleep sagging in his bonds. Charles is attempting to whittle something from a block of wood, holding it in his burnt hand while awkwardly trying to use the knife in his left.

“That’s a nice lookin’…” Arthur trails off as he looks at the chiseled shape. “Uh…” Truth be told, Arthur’s got no idea what the misshapen lump is.

“… Potato?” Charles suggests. He takes another chip out of it and holds it up. Don’t look like anything really, but it’s about as much as can be expected when Charles is working around his injury.

“Thought you were supposed to be resting that hand,” Arthur says.

“This is resting.”

It ain’t, but telling Charles to sit around and do nothing is like telling the sun not to rise.

“You ought to get some sleep in at least,” Arthur says. It brings him back to why he came in here in the first place. “Go on. I’ll take the rest of your shift here.”

“That’s alright.”

“_ C’mon, _” Arthur insists, “You got to rest sometime. You can use my bed in the house.”

Charles hesitates.

“I ain’t jerked off in it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Why? Why is he like this? Arthur presses his eyes shut and prays for the ground to split open and swallow him up.

“… It’s not,” Charles says at last.

“I… I’m real sorry, Charles.” The embarrassed flush creeping up the back of Arthur’s neck is the first warmth he’s felt in days. “Just- ignore me. I don’t know why I keep saying this shit.”

Charles turns over the whittled potato in his hand. “Sorry, Arthur,” he says, earnest as ever, “I’m not much of a talker.”

Arthur wants to tell him that this ain’t Charles’ fault that Arthur keeps going on about his dick like a lunatic, but at this point, that’s only going to make it worse. He breathes out a huff of frustration. “Just go get some sleep, will you?”

That rough tone of voice always riles up newer recruits, makes them stand up to the boss’ big enforcer to try to prove how tough they are. Charles ain’t like any of them – doesn’t need to be, not when he gets to his feet and somehow makes it perfectly clear that he ain’t bothered in the least. He shakes some of the stiff and cold from his legs, then meets Arthur’s eye.

“Dawn is in a few hours. Come wake me then?”

It takes a moment for Arthur to catch on. “Why, you want t’go out?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, “You coming?”

Arthur shrugs. “Sure.”

Charles smiles over his shoulder as he leaves, and the stables feel just a little less cold. Arthur settles back against the crates, grinning to himself. It was nice today, seeing Charles look all proud when Arthur managed to hit that rabbit. Would be nice to see Charles look like that again…

The good mood quickly fades. Charles ain’t going to be looking proud, because Arthur’s going to make a fool of himself. _ I ain’t jerked off in it. _ Jesus, what the Hell is wrong with him? He knows what’s wrong - stuck in the mountains with nothing to do but freeze or starve, least before the Pinkertons get to them - and Arthur _ can’t stop thinking about his dick! _

He ain’t even horny, not really. Just wishes, truly wishes, he could get a bit of warmth and some time alone.

Hey, now… the stable is pretty warm, with all the horses.

Ain’t no one around to disturb him at this hour, except the passed out O’Driscoll, who hardly counts as a person anyway.

And maybe, just maybe, rubbing one out now will be enough to keep him from completely embarassing himself in front of Charles tomorrow.

A hand is cupping the front of his jeans before he even makes the decision. His eyelids half flutter closed in pleasure. His dick’s interested, for sure, pressing up against his palm. Another moment of hesitation, then Arthur takes off his gloves.

There’s nothing like it, taking himself in hand again, that warm familiar feeling that’s about as close to comfort as he’s ever known. He sinks into it, like sinking into a warm bath. He never thinks of anyone, or anything when he does this. Just him, alone. The one bit of solace in that lonely feeling that never goes away no matter what he does, but the tight grip of his fist, that just-right upward twist, and then-

_ Ah! _

The brilliant white of his mind is like opening a fresh page of his journal, ready for the first lines of charcoal to take the form of any shape Arthur chooses. He leans back, eyes closed, head against the wall, and just breathes.

His skin prickles, and it takes a moment to realize he’s being watched.

Awake now, the O’Driscoll is looking at him through a curtain of lank hair. Arthur sneers at him.

“What’re you looking at, O’Driscoll?”

The O’Driscoll flinches away, hiding his face. “Nothing, sir!”

Arthur snorts and settles back again, leisurely tucking himself away. “That’s what I thought.”

* * *

Three elk graze at the edge of the clearing ahead. The buck is enormous, but the closer or the two cows isn’t too big, just the right size that they could get her back to camp without any trouble, and all of them would have full bellies for a week. Arthur nocks the arrow, draws it back, lines it up to take the shot. A beat passes as he steadies himself, then another. His arm shakes. 

“Breathe,” Charles whispers.

“I _ am _ breathing.”

So maybe he isn’t breathing, but that ain’t the only problem. The problem is that the arrow is going to miss the elk by a mile and startle all of them off into the trees.

“_ Shit, _” Arthur mutters. He lowers the bow and goes back to his horse for his rifle.

“You’re going to scare off everything around with that,” Charles warns.

Arthur carefully ignores the look he knows Charles is giving him. “Least I’ve got a chance of hitting the damn thing with this.” The elk are going to startle no matter what Arthur uses, and he’s going to feel worse about missing the shot with the arrow.

“_ Arthur. _”

Against his better judgement, Arthur glances over at Charles. He crumples immediately.

“Alright,” he grumbles, and picks up the bow again.

The elk lowers her head to nibble at a bush. She’d have been a mighty fine supper to bring back to camp, but it ain’t too cold today, and they’ve got plenty time to keep looking once Arthur misses the shot. Just a pity he’s going to let Charles down, after all he’s done to help Arthur with the bow. Hunting with a bow just ain’t for him, ain’t something he’s given any thought to since Dutch and Hosea put a rifle in his hands when he was fifteen.

Then, yesterday he’d hit a rabbit. Got it right in the neck – a perfect shot. “_Y_ _ ou did good with that rabbit, _” Charles had said. Arthur can see him out the corner of his eye now, watching Arthur positioning the bow. Maybe Arthur’s been acting like a fool, but today, he feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

Arthur lines up the shot, and takes a breath.

The arrow looses and pierces the elk just below her ear.

The other two flee at once, so Arthur doesn’t feel too bad about the loud whoop of triumph he lets out. Ever practical, Charles springs to action immediately. Together they dress the elk and get her up onto Arthur’s horse, Charles helping as best he can with his injured hand. Taima’s too small to carry them both so it’s slow going back on foot, but it ain’t too bad. They get back to camp and Pearson’s eyes go wide as dinnerplates at the elk. It sends him into a flustered frenzy as he clears the way for them to get the elk to the meat hanger.

“I’ll hang it,” Arthur tells Charles, more cheerful than he’s got any right to be. “As I recall, Mister Smith, you ain’t supposed to be doing any of the stuff you’ve been doing with your hand like that.”

He expects Charles to insist on helping, because Charles is Charles, but he just shrugs, and looks at Arthur like he’s looking right into his soul.

“Alright,” Charles said, “I know you’ve got no trouble getting it up on your own.”

There’s a sly, knowing glint in his eyes at those words. _ Getting it up _ sounds way too close to all the lunatic bullshit Arthur’s been saying these past few days. It hits Arthur, then, that somehow between their hunting trips and Arthur talking about nothing but jerking off, he’s missed that Charles just might like him too, and not only that, but he’s got a wicked sense of humor and Arthur’s never going to hear the end of this.

Maybe, that ain’t so bad. 


End file.
